


White Lies

by of_dreamers_and_detectives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_dreamers_and_detectives/pseuds/of_dreamers_and_detectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's family is coming to visit, and she finds herself caught in what she thought was an innocent little lie. Sherlock decides to help, and Molly fears disaster . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Something was bothering Molly Hooper, and Sherlock Holmes was determined to discover what it was.

It all started when he strode into the lab at St. Barts on a chilly Tuesday morning in early February. He removed his snow-flecked coat and scarf in one flourish, breaking the stillness of the room and, apparently, Molly's quiet concentration. She glanced up from the microscope she was hunched over with an irritated grimace, which Sherlock steadfastly ignored. She abandoned her usual cheerful greeting for stony silence as she refocused her attention on the specimen she was examining.

"I need a hand," Sherlock announced.

"With what?"

"Five fingers, preferably," Sherlock answered, swinging open the doors of a nearby cabinet and rustling through the contents.

"Oh, right," Molly sighed, swinging around on the stool to watch him. "You do know I don't just have unlimited access to any pieces of human bodies that I may wish to collect, don't you? I know you've been given some special clearance and everything, but I doubt that includes everyth . . . Hey, make yourself at home, why don't you?" She narrowed her eyes at Sherlock as he dug deeper into the cabinet, shoving vials and dyes out of his way.

Sherlock glanced over at her. Since when did she care what he used in the lab? If she really did have some sort of organizational system being implemented on this shelf, he should certainly be able to pick up on it, but it appeared to be a random assortment of rarely-used and half-empty odds and ends. He was just about to comment on this, but decided not to when he saw the scowl on her face.

"Really, Molly, I doubt your subject will find it to be of any further use," he muttered, but decided to drop the subject and pursue his main purpose for coming to the lab, which was to test some bacterial samples that had been collected from his most recent client's handbag. Or, perhaps he should start referring to her as his most recent ex-client, considering she had been found dead yesterday morning. Either way, the solution to the case could be resting on the results of this test, so Sherlock decided to focus his full attention on the contents of the petri dish he was currently studying through the microscope . . . which shouldn't have been difficult, considering the absolute silence of the room.

It was precisely this silence, however, that attracted his attention as soon as he obtained the results of his analysis (which were, he noted with a self-satisfied smirk, exactly as he had been expecting). His time spent at St. Bart's lab had always been punctuated by Molly's casual chatter, which ranged from lovestruck idolizing when they first met, to admiring fascination in later years, and then more recently to companionable small talk. He had found his own responses to her presence changing, too. He had been wrong to ignore her at first, to assume that everything she had to say was just her natural way of trying to ward off awkward silences. He had even found himself enjoying their casual conversations; not many people were able to have an evenly-matched conversation with him about pathogen growth, forensic methods, and the relative benefits and drawbacks of various tissue staining techniques. This heavy silence was certainly unusual, considering such long periods of conversational lag generally seemed to make Molly uncomfortable. It was highly unlikely that she had not noticed it, which could only mean one thing: the silence was deliberate.

Despite having completed his intention, Sherlock continued to hover over his microscope for a few minutes, sneaking occasional glances towards Molly. He decided that there could only be a small number of reasons for her silence, the most likely of which included:

a.) anger towards him, most likely due to a recent violation of appropriate social conduct,

b.) a personal distraction, probably of a distressing nature, such as a recent break-up, personal illness, work-related issue, PMS, or the illness or death of a pet or acquaintance, or

c.) a high level of preoccupation with the sample she was currently evaluating

He couldn't remember recently committing anything that could be considered an offense, really, mostly because he hadn't even spoken to Molly in nearly a week. And she didn't seem to be particularly interested in her current project, considering the fact that she kept fidgeting with her hair, jewelry, and small objects in her immediate vicinity. That was, in fact, more a sign of distraction and anxiety, which supported the only remaining option; some personal problem that was troubling her.

A break-up seemed unlikely, simply because she had only recently gotten over her most recent split a little under two months ago. Sherlock could tell that this one had not been particularly difficult for her; the decline of effort put into clothing choices and hair style, which he usually observed to some degree after each breakup, had failed to occur, and there had been no sign of dark circles or weight changes. In fact, much to his annoyance, he had not even been able to deduce the occurrence of this break-up until Molly mentioned it off-handedly.

The next option, personal illness, seemed equally unlikely, considering it would also probably involve a slight change in appearance, as well as time off from work. She had been in the lab or morgue every time he had dropped by recently, although he supposed . . . .

"Arggh!"

Sherlock was abruptly snapped out of his contemplations by a frustrated shriek from Molly. "Damn, wrong sample!" she moaned, violently pushing away the Petri dish that she had just added dye to. She dropped her head in her hands and groaned again.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; he had never heard Molly curse before. He realized that whatever was bothering Molly should be of no interest to him; she was perfectly capable of working through problems on her own, and there was really no point in getting involved. However, mistakes made in the lab were simply not acceptable. What if this had been a sample from one of his own cases, and she had not caught the mistake? Besides, he really wanted that hand sometime in the near future, and if Molly didn't get over this soon and get in a better mood he may have to resort to slightly less legal methods of acquisition. He pushed his microscope aside and slid into the stool beside Molly.

"I doubt that Mr. -" Sherlock picked up the discarded blood sample and glanced at the label – "Thomas will mind giving another blood sample, considering he's dead."

"I know," Molly sighed, raising her head. A few stray strands of hair came loose from her ponytail; Sherlock noted the exhausted look on her face as she brushed them back. "It's just seems like this day couldn't get any worse," she added under her breath.

"Hmm. That hardly seems to be an accurate observation, considering the comparison between the day you've experienced and the day your patients have. Take Mr. Thomas here, for instance."

"Shut up, Sherlock," Molly growled, "Why are you here, anyway?"

"I told you, I need a hand," Sherlock answered. He realized that his previous statement may not have achieved his intention of cheering her up, "And I wanted to test this sample. Oh yes, and when you do Mrs. Barrow's autopsy this afternoon, check to see if there are chips in the nail polish on her right forefinger."

"What? Fine, sure," she snapped, her tone conveying the exact opposite sentiments of her words, "And if she doesn't have any polish on?"

"She will."

"Right, right, because you're Sherlock Holmes and you know everything!" Molly spat. She stood up, gathering up some papers behind her and heading towards the door. Sherlock opened his mouth, searching for a response, but she had already pushed her way into the hall.

What could possibly be bothering her this much? Sherlock was quite certain he had not done anything to her this time.

One thing was certain; he wouldn't be getting that hand today.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly sat at her desk downstairs. She appeared to be glaring with hatred at the paperwork piled in front of her, but she was really just staring off into space, deep in thought and seeing nothing.

She hadn't been fair to Sherlock, she knew. He hadn't done anything wrong, really, but she truly wasn't in the mood to get ordered around. She was, quite frankly, simply in a very bad mood. But she had an excuse to be.

Her mother had called last night. Now, that in itself generally wasn't enough to put her in a bad mood. She loved her mother, as much as any daughter should, but that didn't mean that she was happy to hear the news her mother had called to announce; she, as well as Molly's younger sister, would be coming to London to visit in two days. And they had a "surprise" for her; a well-meaning, good-hearted surprise that was going to unintentionally humiliate Molly.

It was evident to anyone who spent time with her that Molly was very self-conscious. She knew this herself, and viewed it as a personal fault, but it seemed to be so deeply ingrained in her that she could not help feeling this way around everyone, and her family was no exception. It didn't help that her mother and younger sister lived ideal lives. They both lived in the wealthy village of Alderley Edge as well-respected members of the community, admired for everything from their charity to their choices in clothing. Molly herself had been raised in this community. Growing up, she and her family had never wanted for anything, and had never had to worry about the future. She and her sister, Evelyn, had had their lifetimes planned out ahead of them; they would graduate from private school, attend an affluent university for a few years (simply to pursue a subject of interest, not from any concern with future job prospects), then marry a wealthy baker or lawyer and move to Beaconsfield or Marlow or some other prosperous village. There, they would begin a family and have happy rosy-cheeked little children, who would begin the cycle again.

Of course, this was never stated in so many words, but it was the distinct impression that Molly formed. And, in fact, Evelyn had conformed to this very pattern, with the one exception of deciding to remain in Alderley Edge rather than moving to an affluent London suburb. Growing up, Evelyn had been the pride and joy of the Hooper family. She had grown from a chubby, joyous child with flaxen hair and a sweet demeanor into a beautiful young woman, successful in all of her endeavors. She did very well in school, graduating second in her class, and excelled even more at the violin (Molly, on the other hand, was completely tone-deaf, and any attempts to educate her in the musical arts met with complete and utter failure). Evelyn had been the star of many successful musical performances for charity and the like, and had only abandoned her considerable talent at ballet to pursue her instrumental interests further. Evelyn's smile could light up a room, and she had the unusual ability to make anyone feel immediately at ease. With her flowing blonde hair, full lips, and liquid brown eyes, it was no surprise that she was never lacking a boyfriend throughout her teenage years, and had barely entered her twenties when she married a wealthy executive of a contracting business. She was now the mother of two boys, still deeply in love with her handsome husband Charles, and never seemed to age a day. Molly had never been exceptionally close to her sister, and viewed her as somewhat of a miracle of humanity; was it truly possible for someone to be that beautiful, that successful, that happy?

It was this stark contrast to her sister that made Molly just as self-conscious around her mother, Elizabeth. Growing up, the only area in which Molly had surpassed her sister was in academic endeavors, although being able to say that she came in first in her class, while Evelyn "only" came in second, seemed to be a small consolation for Molly. In other areas, she had always felt second-rate. When her sister excelled at music and dance, Molly's parents patiently encouraged Molly to pursue some extra-curricular hobbies so that she could find her own "niche." Everything ended in disaster. She hated trying to learn to play musical instruments; her parents finally agreed to let her quit after her instructor politely insinuated that it was hopeless. Dancing ended in nothing but embarrassment (and occasional physical injury), and her artistic pursuits were, without exception, failures. As soon as she was old enough, Molly decided to take full advantage of the one talent she did have, immediately enrolling in Cambridge to pursue her interest in the natural sciences, and pathology in particular. Her mother (her father had passed away when she was sixteen) offered as much support to Molly's decision as she could muster. It was obvious, however, that her "support" was insincere; she viewed Molly's interests as peculiar, and expected her daughter to abandon these studies or change interests within a couple of years. Surely her daughter, raised in a wealthy, spotless household in a meticulously manicured neighborhood in a village impressively well-known for its affluence, would not decide to spend her life in some old, hectic hospital, cutting open corpses? Molly and her sister had inherited plenty of money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives with minimal effort. Really, academic success and, even more so, a hard-earned degree would be like attaching propellers to a bird; completely superfluous. And to live in a small, mediocre flat on a crowded street in the middle of London? The one time her mother had visited her flat, Molly could tell that she was trying to find something nice to say, but that the words stuck in her throat. She was too busy trying not to be caught scowling at her tattered furniture, scattered books and papers, or the cat hair floating in the air (her mother was strongly opposed to the idea of indoor pets).

More recently, however, the most sensitive topic to Molly had been that of romantic relationships. She had been embarrassed by the fact that she had not dated at all until she was nearly twenty; her sister, although two years younger, had always caught the eye of all of Molly's potential love interests. It was not that Molly was ugly in any way, and even she realized this; she was simply too awkward, and whenever any men did show interest, she had the habit of retreating into herself in discomfort, even when she was interested in return. Although she had overcome this to some extent, for the past several years she had passed through a series of rapidly-ending and disastrous relationships. There had been Robert, charming and tall and seemingly perfect until she found out he was married. Then there had been Ethan, who Molly had originally been attracted to because of his compassion for animals, children, and the elderly, but had ended the relationship after visiting his house and decided that sixteen cats were perhaps a bit too many. And then, well . . . she tried to avoid even thinking about how the "Jim from IT" situation had ended. The list of such failures was embarrassingly long, and made the comparison to her happily-married sister all the more embarrassing.

She had felt much more optimistic last fall, when she met an attractive, slightly older man working in surgery who had shown interest in her. She was ecstatic when he asked her on a date, and then another and another. Molly would spend each Friday evening perfecting her makeup, picking out the perfect outfit and accessories for the occasion, and would meet Brandon at her doorstep at 8:30. With his nice suit and tie, dark wavy hair, and winning smile, he took her breath away every time. They visited a number of London's finest restaurant; over candlelight, with a single rose between them, she experienced the changes in their conversations. Early on, they talked about work, interesting patients and shared knowledge, laughs and complaints about management. As time went on, their discussions deepened as they discussed their childhoods, families, and hopes for the future. He had even taken her out dancing on a couple of occasions. As her feelings for Brandon deepened, Molly excitedly told her sister about her good fortune, proud of finally being as happy with someone as her sister was with her husband. Her mother's enthusiasm had been obvious; a surgeon was a relatively respectable job, and he sounded like an upright citizen. Molly knew that she always worried that her eldest daughter would end up an old spinster. Her constant comments that Molly needed to "get out more," and her thinly veiled insinuations that she should update her clothing or hair, came to a temporary end. Molly knew that her mother worried she would end up an old spinster, or perhaps an aging cat-lady, chopping on dead bodies for a living.

When her relationship with Brandon ended abruptly, her disappointment was just as strong as her pain, and the half-hearted consolation that Evelyn and her mother offered only worsened the whole situation. She hated it when people felt sorry for her. Although she knew it was irrational, she felt embarrassed; she felt like a disappointment.

Which all led up to her dishonesty yesterday.

Her mother had called that evening, sounding even more chipper than usual. She told Molly about her new neighbors, the novel she was reading, and other mundane aspects of her daily life. As always, she had plenty of amusing anecdotes about Evelyn's children. Molly expressed interest as best she could, and when asked about how she was faring, launched into a story about one of her more interesting recent autopsies, involving a surprising finding in the contents of an elderly woman's stomach. A long silence from her mother made her quickly end the story and attempt to change the subject.

As always, her mother asked if she was seeing anybody. Molly hesitated, as she always did. What was the point in telling her that, no, she spent all of her evenings off in her flat, reading a combination of Jane Austen and medical journals? That the only man she felt any interest in was a rude, arrogant consulting detective who had no interest in other human beings whatsoever and was "married to his work"? She didn't want sympathy, or a lecture on becoming more sociable. So, she lied. She told her mother that yes, she was seeing someone from work. Yes, he took her out on dates several times a week to nice restaurants. He was kind and intelligent and handsome. No, he was definitely not married. But other than this, she remained as vague on the subject as she could, hoping the subject would soon change before she buried herself into a hole, or before she was asked a question that she couldn't improvise an answer to quickly enough.

But her mother's next words froze her in place.

"Oh, what perfect timing! I'll be delighted to meet him!"

Molly's voice seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere in her throat as her mother explained that she, Evelyn, and Evelyn's family were coming to visit in a few days. It would be a "short visit"; Molly didn't need to worry about taking time off of work or anything, and they would stay in a hotel in order to avoid inconveniencing her (or so they said; Molly knew they just didn't want to stay in her dingy flat). And even better; they would be in London for Valentine's Day, and had a surprise for Molly and her new boyfriend.

Molly listened in horror as her mother explained in more detail. Elizabeth, Evelyn, and Evelyn's husband had bought five tickets to a benefit ball at the Dorchester hotel in London, both for themselves and for a couple that they enjoyed spending time with. Unfortunately, their friends' son had developed a bad case of the flu, and they would be unable to arrange a trip to London. Which, Elizabeth exclaimed, would provide the perfect opportunity for Molly and her new beau to have a romantic Valentine's evening out at one of the finest establishments in London.

And so, Molly accepted the invitation. She didn't have time to think, to disagree or come up with an excuse. She, in her deer-in-the-headlights alarm, agreed to attend a Valentine's ball with her nonexistent boyfriend, sickeningly perfect sister, and overbearing mother.

After hanging up the phone, Molly realized that she really only had two options. Coming up with an excuse wasn't one of them; there was really no way she could claim that her boyfriend was out of town for the week. Her mother would be very disapproving of the fact that he would abandon her daughter for Valentine's day, not to mention that they would probably be interested in seeing pictures of him, or hearing more about him. Such as his name; Molly distinctly recalled from the conversation that she had not specified a name, simply identified him as "someone from work." Molly knew she couldn't keep up the lie in that way, and that doing so would just create more problems.

So, she could either admit her lie, or find a date by Valentine's day. Which was on Friday, only four days away. The thought of admitting her lie made her feel slightly ill. How pathetic would that look? It would be like confessing her insecurity to her mother and sister, acknowledging that she was so incapable of finding a boyfriend that she had had to invent one. It would be watching the rest of her pride go down the drain.

So that just left the option of finding a date within the next few days. Even this could be a problem; her dishonesty could be revealed if, perhaps, her mother asked him how long they had been seeing each other. Plus, getting up the courage to actually ask a man out would be an ordeal in itself. And who would she ask? The only option that came up in her mind was Anthony, a broad-shouldered, slightly lumbering man who worked in the filing department. She had caught him staring at her a few times, and he occasionally tried to make small talk (which, she got the impression, was the only talk he was capable of). It was likely that he would accept her invitation. He was good-looking enough, but still, the thought of actually attending a romantic outing with him turned her stomach slightly. He was exceedingly dull; their few exchanges usually involved the relative merit of sports teams (a difficult subject for Molly to discuss considering her ignorance in that area) or complaints about the weather.

So, today, after a sleepless night of debating her options, Molly had still not come to a conclusion. Focusing on her work was impossible. Twice she had considering marching down to filing and asking Anthony to the ball, simply so that she would not have to agonize over her decision anymore. She just couldn't bring herself to do it. She knew that asking him out would involve not only the ball itself, but most likely several get-togethers between the two of them and her visiting family, which would be agonizing to say the least. She wondered if a boring boyfriend who worked in filing would be any better in her mother's mind than no boyfriend at all, but surely it would be better than admitting her lie . . .

And it was already Tuesday. They were coming tomorrow evening. Molly moaned again, and dropped her head to the desk.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, Molly, what's the verdict on Mrs. Barrow's nail polish?" Sherlock inquired the next morning as he burst into the lab. Molly looked up from the files she was shuffling through and gave him a blank look.

"What?"

"Mrs. Barrow's forefinger? The autopsy? Do wake up, Molly."

"Oh," Molly's face crumpled, and her cheeks reddened in embarrassment, "I – I'm sorry, things got busy, I had things on my mind and . . ."

"You forgot," Sherlock sighed, collapsing in the seat beside her, "Molly, a man's alibi depends on the condition of that polish!"

"Oh god," Molly said. To Sherlock's alarm, her eyes began to fill with tears. "Really?"

"Well, no . . ." Sherlock admitted, backpedalling. To be honest, he had already solved the case, and just out of curiosity wanted to verify some of his theories about the details. Unnecessary details, really. "Not really. But it would have helped. Never mind."

Sherlock could tell that Molly was trying to avoid crying as she buried her head back into the file and desolately shuffled through the papers inside. Apparently her reaction to whatever personal distress she was experiencing had transformed from irritability to emotional instability. Hardly an improvement; Sherlock had hoped for that hand today, although even a foot would be acceptable. Molly's moods were interfering with his work; this wouldn't do at all. Oh well; he had a couple of samples of algae he was interested in investigating anyway, so the visit to the lab wasn't a complete waste of time.

He had only been at his work for about fifteen minutes when a knock on the door came.

"Come in," Molly called. She looked up as the door opened, and all of the color immediately drained from her face.

The visitors were two women, obviously not workers in the hospital. They wore stylish, immaculate outfits, and even more flawless hairstyles. The older woman (he approximated her age to be sixty-one) wore a pair of black slacks with a sleek, geometrically-patterned silk blouse and a pair of ebony Christian Louboutin shoes. Her jewelry was understated, but elegant. The younger woman, in her late twenties, was dressed similarly, but wore a sleek skirt instead. Their makeup was flawless, but not gaudy, and was obviously something they were practiced at. They exuded confidence; perhaps the older woman displayed a small amount of snobbery, but the younger appeared to be confident enough that even snobbery was unnecessary. It was obvious, however, that they were slightly uncomfortable with their surroundings; even though they acted happy to be here, they constantly cast wary glances at the vials and Petri dishes sitting on the countertops and tables, as if expecting to see random limbs tucked away somewhere.

Sherlock immediately knew who they were. Their brown eyes and hair, small ears, slightly upturned noses, and dainty lips made it very obvious that they were close relatives of Molly's, and judging by their ages, it was evident that they were most likely her mother and sister. And it wouldn't have taken Sherlock Holmes to determine that, judging by the expression of shock and horror on Molly's face, the two visitors had been the reason behind her recent anxieties.

"M-mom," Molly stuttered, trying to turn her dismayed appearance into a welcoming smile, and failing miserably. "I thought you were going to meet me at Zucca tonight . . ."

"We got in early, dear!" her mother laughed, leaning in to kiss her cheek, "Don't look so shocked! The man at the desk- you know, the . . ." -she searched for the politically correct word - "large one, with the glasses – he said it was alright. That you'd be absolutely delighted to have visitors during your tedious lab hours!"

"Oh," Molly said, still trying and failing to force a believable smile, "Okay. Um. How was your trip?"

"Terrible!" Molly's sister answered, giving her a gentle hug. She moved to put her Fendi handbag down on the nearby countertop, but glanced at its surgically white surface and seemed to change her mind, "It's just so cold! I thought my toes would freeze."

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment on her poor choice of shoes if that was a genuine concern, but thought better of it.

"So this is where you spend all of your time?" Molly's mother commented, gazing at the stark white cabinets and shelves and countertops. "How . . . hygienic."

Sherlock watched their exchanges with a bemused air. He knew that Molly had come from a wealthy background, but it was still somewhat disconcerting to see the sharp contrast between her and her closest family members. Her ill-fitting floral cardigans and scrunchie-held ponytail created quite the disparity with her relatives' chic choices in fashion. They hid their distaste about as well as Molly hid her despair.

"Well," Molly's mother said after a few minutes of small talk, during which Molly had gradually regained her bearings a bit, "is your boyfriend working today? We'd love to meet him if he's got a bit of free time . . . Or maybe he could meet us for dinner tonight? I'd love to meet him before the ball on Friday."

Molly's bearings were, once again, completely lost. The whiteness of her face now made the paleness that had struck her when her relatives came in look like a blush. She gaped like a fish for a moment, and then let out a defeated sigh.

"Listen, about that," Molly murmured, "I'm not sure if the whole ball thing will work out."

Sherlock watched with interest as Molly stared down at her tennis shows in obvious misery. Here it was; Sherlock immediately recognized this as the reason for her recent distress. He could not remember ever seeing Molly this upset; and if Sherlock Holmes couldn't remember it, it hadn't happened.

"Whatever do you mean, dear?" her mother asked with obvious concern, "I thought you'd be elated! It's the perfect Valentine's date . . . Unless you had something else planned? I suppose that would be fine to, but we'd at least like to meet him for dinner or something . . ."

"Listen, Mother," Molly said, taking a deep breath as if to steel herself for an ordeal ahead, "I know I told you I was seeing someone from work . . ."

Sherlock frowned. He knew she wasn't; he knew from her "office romances" in the past that there was no way she would continue to make those clothing choices or ignore her hair if that were true.

"But I wasn't quite telling the truth. I just – I'm sorry, but I didn't want you to worry about me, and I know you're afraid I'll never find someone, but –"

So this was it. And it was time for him to step in and make it all right.

"Now, Molly!" Sherlock cut her off briskly, jumping up from the stool and throwing an arm around her shoulders, "I think we can tell them, don't you? If anyone should know about your personal life, it's your mother and sister, who obviously care about you enough to want to know about who you've decided to . . ." he hesitated for a moment, " . . . show your affection for?"

Molly stared at him. "W-what . . . ?"

"Oh, come on," Sherlock shot a winning grin at her, and then turned it towards her perplexed mother and sister, "She's so bashful! Certainly one to avoid publicity, that's for sure. Which is why we haven't really made our relationship public yet; you know how the press is. I don't really think this one little indiscretion will hurt though . . . "

"Oh!" exclaimed Evelyn, clasping her hands in delight, "You're that detective bloke who's been in the papers! Molly's told us all about you! I had no idea you two were a couple . . . In fact, I kind of thought you were living with . . ." She hesitated.

"You know how rumors are!" Sherlock grinned again. How tedious this was getting. "Which is precisely why Molly and I have decided to keep our relationship somewhat confidential for the time being." He bent down to give Molly a quick peck on the cheek. She turned as red as a beet; she certainly wasn't very good at this.

"I don't think one evening in public would hurt though, dear, do you? A ball sounds like the perfect romantic evening . . ."

Molly appeared to be in a disbelieving stupor. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, prompting her to answer and mentally begging her to go along with this. She blinked slowly.

"Um, yes, I suppose," she said slowly, "That would be . . . fun."

"Oh, delightful!" Molly's mother said, clapping her hands together in glee. Sherlock watched with amusement as a huge smile broke out across her distinguished face. "I'm so very happy that you've found someone, Molly. Evelyn and I were so afraid . . ." she exchanged a knowing look with her younger daughter, "Well, anyway, we will be delighted to get to know you better, Mr. Holmes. Would you like to join us for dinner tonight?"

"Certainly!" Sherlock answered jubilantly. All of this smiling was getting exhausting; he hoped they'd leave soon.

"B-but . . ." Molly stuttered, looking at Sherlock in alarm, "I – I thought you had to work late tonight? You had a case, or something, remember?" Her eyes pleaded with him.

Apparently she needed a date for one night, Sherlock decided, but she didn't want to risk revealing her deception (which Sherlock had by now fully deduced). Did she really think he was that inadequate with disguise? He would certainly prove her wrong.

"No, no," Sherlock said, waving his hand in dismissal, "It's fine. I would love to spend a little time with your family!"

"Well, we're very much looking forward to it, and it was wonderful to meet you," Evelyn said warmly, shaking Sherlock's hand. Her mother was still grinning like an idiot. "But we'd better get moving. Charles is checking into the hotel for us; he's probably itching to check out the city. Besides, we've got to get out of these old clothes for our dinner tonight! "

They said their customary farewells, Sherlock with forced enthusiasm, and Molly with distracted stutters. She was still trying to get over her shock.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Molly spun around and glared at Sherlock.

"What the hell was that about?!"

"Oh, do calm yourself, Molly," Sherlock said, bemused. He sat back down in the chair beside her, "It was obvious you were facing quite some distress. Lied to your mother, did you?" Sherlock clicked his tongue in mock consternation.

"Well, yes, but I can handle myself," Molly murmured, "I just get tired of their . . . their sympathy. Or their derision, really. I wanted them to think, well, that I can do something other than fail at relationships."

"So I was being helpful, correct?" Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

"I suppose," Molly said thoughtfully, "So you were trying to be nice?"

"You say that with such disbelief," Sherlock said with mock sarcasm.

"It's just kind of surprising, that's all," she answered, not quite able to hide a note of suspicion, "So you're not investigating my family for some reason, or trying to impersonate my boyfriend to get into the ball for a case, or something like that?"

"No," Sherlock said simply. He didn't think she'd appreciate it if he explained that her irritability, and resulting unhelpfulness, was getting in the way of his casework, and this was the perfect solution. He could sacrifice one evening of boring pleasantries in order to regain full access to all of the morgue's services.

"Thank you, then," Molly said appreciatively, "Although I'm not saying it was a good idea, or that it will even work. Are you really planning on coming to dinner tonight?"

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but . . . " Molly hesitated, "Just try not to be . . . rude. Or psychopathic. Okay?"

"Why would I do that?"

Molly bit her lip but remained silent.

"So, just out of curiosity, how long have you been keeping up this whole 'boyfriend' deception?"

"Only a few days," she sighed, "I told Mother I was seeing someone from work. I never imagined that she would be coming to visit this soon, and that she would want to meet him. I should have just admitted it then and there. I thought about asking Anthony, but, well . . ."

"Anthony? From the filing department?" Sherlock grimaced.

"Yes."

"He's an idiot."

Molly smiled for the first time in days. "Yes, he is."

Sherlock smirked confidently as he turned back to his work. He had certainly earned that hand now.


	4. Chapter 4

The evening was nothing short of magical.

Less than a week ago, Molly had been dreading this night with all of her being. She knew that she would either have to spend an evening knowing that her mother was simmering with anger and disdain at her for her dishonesty (not to mention despairing over her inadequacy in relationships), or making painful small talk with Anthony, which was perhaps even worse. Even before her mother had called, she had anticipated spending Valentine's day lounging about in her flat, drinking wine with her cat on her lap and getting teary-eyed over a romantic movie. In fact, it had been several years since she had had a date for Valentine's Day; she had had the misfortune of being between relationships every time the holiday had come around. She could not have imagined that she would spend this evening enveloped in the arms of the man that she had fancied and admired for years.

If someone had told her that her family's visit would have gone as well as it did, she would not have believed it. Generally, she spent the time with her mother and sister feeling self-conscious and inadequate, making excuses for her job and her lack of social life. She usually could not wait for them to leave London and return to Alderley Edge.

This visit had been completely different. Her anxieties over their dinner with Sherlock had been completely unfounded; in fact, he had been absolutely charming, asking her sister about her children and husband, and her mother about the charity drives she had been running. Molly had feared that he would be unable to contain his contempt at listening to her relatives' seemingly endless drivel about their favorite London spas, their new stylish drapes, and collections of post-war sculptures, but he had conversed with them throughout the entire evening without a single rude comment, insinuation, or outright insult. He hadn't flaunted his intelligence or showed off in any way; if anything, he feigned some self-consciousness. Molly felt that, although a worker in the "criminal justices" may seem, to her mother, "below" her family's standards, Sherlock qualified as more of a celebrity, and seemed to live up to her requirements. Charles had even accompanied them to dinner, and Sherlock had engaged in a discussion with him about the World Cup; Molly was surprised that Sherlock even knew what that was.

She had spent the whole day Thursday hitting the best of London's boutiques with Evelyn and Elizabeth, trying on hats and shoes and viewing handbags Molly knew she would never actually spend money on. This was something that she would have usually dreaded, listening to her mother and sister ooh and aah over over-priced trinkets as she watched on in derision. But this time, she was walking on air over the previous evening's dinner, and could feel her mother's elation over her eldest daughter's new relationship success. In fact, the only part of the day that she regretted was, surprisingly, Sherlock's absence.

She had spent the whole afternoon today in eager anticipation of the evening's festivities, her anxieties over Sherlock's social inadequacies having been completely dispelled with the overwhelming success of Wednesday's dinner. She had even splurged on a new dress; not quite as expensive as something her sister would buy, but certainly much more than she had spent on any outfit in recent years. It wasn't showy; rather, it was an understated, elegant piece of clothing that accentuated her figure without being excessively revealing. The deep burgundy, satin fabric was nicely fitted to show off her curves (and, she noted with satisfaction, made certain areas appear curvier than they usually did), draping elegantly across one shoulder. The other shoulder remained bare, other than her carefully-curled hair that cascaded over it. She had chosen rather simple shoes, black with modest heels, hoping that avoiding a high heel would make her lack of dancing skills a little less obvious. To finish it off, she added some small diamond earrings and a dainty sparkling necklace.

Despite her elaborate preparations for the ball, she was still ready almost an hour early. She sat on her couch, fidgeting nervously with one book after another, not really comprehending anything on the pages. Toby meowed in annoyance as she pushed him away, not wanting to get cat fur on her dark dress; he finally gave up and glared at her from the corner of the room.

And, of course, when Sherlock showed up, he had taken her breath away. He always dressed nicely, certainly more formally than the occasion generally called for, but Molly had never seen him in this elegant of a suit, the inky blackness of the fabric providing a stark contrast against his Byronically-pale skin. His hair, of course, was as unruly as ever; Molly wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Now she was here, completely comfortable in Sherlock's arms as they danced a slow waltz across the ballroom floor. Violin music floated in the air around them, punctuated only by the low murmur of the conversations of the couples twirling around them. The low lights of the room, sparkling chandeliers and glassware, and waiters milling silently around the ballroom with glimmering trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres created a more glamorous and opulent environment than Molly could remember ever experiencing. Although this would usually make her feel uncomfortable and out-of-place, tonight it was different; she felt beautiful, elegant, and quite frankly (despite the immaturity of the thought), like a princess.

The dancing had made her slightly nervous. She had never really learned how to dance, and wasn't exactly the most graceful of women. But her fears had been completely unfounded; Sherlock seemed to be a natural dancer, and was beyond adequate at leading her movements. She had not stepped on his toes or misjudged his next move even once. They had seamlessly matched the rhythm of the music without any difficulty.

The rhythmic pace of their movements and gentleness of the music lulled Molly into a kind of dreamy trance. She savored the warm touch of Sherlock's hand on the small of her back, the feel of his fingers intertwined in hers. She could feel the muscles in his shoulder (how could someone that thin feel so strong?) tense and relax in time with his movements, the gentle pressure he exerted on her as he led her turns in time with the music. As one song transformed into another, and the evening progressed further, Molly could feel herself relax into his grasp until their torsos gently pressed into one another's. She could feel the softness of his warm breath tickling a strand of hair against her neck. She hoped he could not feel the quickened tempo of her heart against his ribs, but knew that he probably could. When she looked up, she saw his stunning blue eyes boring into hers, and she blushed. Her eyes awkwardly darted to her feet.

"Thank you so much for tonight," Molly murmured, "It was really thoughtful of you. To help me save face and all, I mean."

"My pleasure," Sherlock said simply. Molly glanced up, attempting to detect some trace of sarcasm, but was unable to detect any. She took a shaky breath.

"Where did you learn to dance so well?" she asked.

"Doesn't come up much in cases. But it's quite simple, as long as you understand the mechanics."

He hadn't really answered the question, but she supposed it didn't matter.

"You're not too bad yourself," Sherlock acknowledged. Molly's heart skipped a beat.

Molly was not quite ready to give up dancing when the attendees were called to dinner.

Dinner, like the one two nights before, started off exceptionally well. Polite conversation not only flowed around them; they were able to fully engage in it, Molly loosening up slightly from the champagne, and Sherlock eagerly adopting his most charming persona. Even Molly had to keep reminding herself that it was just an act. Evelyn and Elizabeth were obviously enchanted with him, and even generally reserved Charles found himself laughing at some of his witty comments.

"Oh, I am just so delighted that Molly has finally found someone like you!" Elizabeth laughed, wiping away the joyful tears that one of Sherlock's more amusing anecdotes had brought to her eyes, "We were afraid she's end up dating another Ethan. Or, what was his name, Jackson? The one with the stubby fingers, who didn't know what 'equestrian' meant?"

Molly's face fell. "Jonathon," she muttered. She stabbed at the remains of her desserts in a decidedly unladylike fashion.

"Oh, yes," Elizabeth's eyes glittered with mirth, "Did she ever tell you about the one who said he was a writer from Knightsbridge? Come to find out he was not writing so much as a blog . . . and was living in his mother's basement!" She giggled with ladylike reserve, and Evelyn joined in with unabashed glee. Even Charles took a break from downing his fourth glass of champagne to break a grin.

Molly's heart sank, and her cheeks reddened with humiliation. Of course it would all come down to this; despite her previous joy at spending the evening with Sherlock, she would have given anything not to have him here right now, listening to the embarrassing details about all of her past relationships.

"He was just down on his luck at the time," Molly murmured softly, dropping her gaze, "And he was a nice man." It was the truth. Just not up to your standards.

"Oh, we know, Molly dear," her mother cooed, reaching over to pat her hand gently, "Poor girl!"

"Now, you know, what really made me wonder about her taste in men," Charlie joined in, for the first time that night, "was when she turned down my brother. That one was quite unexpected."

"It just didn't work out, you know," Molly mumbled. Truthfully, she had despised even being near Charlie's younger brother; she always felt like he was undressing her with his eyes. But this really wasn't something you told your brother-in-law, which made it difficult to explain why she wasn't interested in the wealthy, charming, and most importantly mother-pleasing man.

"Oh well, it seems to have worked out for the better," her mother beamed, "I always knew that both of my daughters would end up with such young, bright, and – if I must say so myself – good-looking young men."

"I am simply delighted that I live up to your standards," Sherlock smirked. Molly glanced up at him, alarmed at the sarcastic derision in his voice, but neither Elizabeth nor Evelyn seemed to have noticed.

"Speaking of bright," Evelyn chimed in, turning to Sherlock, "I've heard so much about your ability to 'read' people. You sound nothing short of psychic!" Sherlock grimaced at this. "I'm sure you must get tired of people asking you this, but what can you tell about me?"

Molly's heart leapt to her throat, but there was nothing that she could do to stop this now. She could already see Sherlock's friendly exterior slipping, his annoyance with the pettiness of her relatives increasing.

"Let's see," Sherlock breathed thoughtfully, leaning forward on his elbows to look more closely at her, "You majored in one of the liberal arts, probably English, I'm assuming. Worked for a while as an editor. You were ambidextrous as a child, but learned to favor your right hand for convenience. You have had asthma in the past but it has given you no trouble for at least, let's see, five or six years? You're also allergic to nickel, although it really doesn't matter because someone like you would never even dream of wearing something so cheap. You're a stay-at-home mom, of course, and your boys want a dog but you are hesitant to subject your furniture to that kind of abuse. Although you're not a vegetarian, you are a philanthropist, so you avoid eating meat in front of others because you want to give the impression that you are, especially in front of your mother." Evelyn reddened as her mother gave her a disapproving glance. Sherlock ignored this. "Would you like me to go on?"

"No, thank you," Evelyn said graciously, "But it truly is a great trick!"

"Trick?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yes," she smiled, a little confused at his confrontational tone, "I used to have this friend who could deal himself a royal flush with his eyes closed every time." Noting Sherlock's grimace, she added, "But this is so much more interesting!"

"So, you think this is a simple parlor trick?" Sherlock growled, "Perhaps I didn't quite demonstrate . . ."

"Sherlock, please!" Molly interrupted, placing a hand on his elbow. She couldn't let this go on much further. Sherlock ignored her.

"You wear Chanel makeup, the most expensive you can find, not necessarily because it looks the best but because your friends have recommended it and you are afraid that, if you don't wear it, they'll think it's because of the exorbitant price tag. Nonetheless, you do worry about your appearance, especially as the 'big three-o'" – he said this with mocking air quotes – "has come and gone within the past, what, two years? You feel like keeping up your appearance may at least help with warding off those encroaching marriage troubles. And as far as your clothing –"

"Wait, back up!" Evelyn's eyes flashed, "We are not having marriage troubles!"

"Oh, of course you are!" Sherlock laughed, rolling his eyes, "It's obvious. Certainly you would not wear an old outfit to an elegant ball like this if you were looking forward to it as much as you would want us to believe; you've worn that dress at least once in those past, and those shoes three or four times. You certainly don't lack the resources to purchase special clothing for such an occasion as this, so why didn't you? Also, what was the name on the tickets to this ball, the one who paid for them? Oh, let's see, Ms. Elizabeth Hooper. Apparently, your mother was the one who bought tonight's tickets. And why would that be? She wouldn't have bought tickets for you if you had already had plans; apparently she was encouraging you to spend some time together, presumably because you haven't been. Mr. Charles here doesn't exactly seem like the type of guy to express much enthusiasm about a ball . . . He has obviously never practiced dancing once in his life, and has seemed to enjoy having his lips on that champagne glass there more than having his lips on yours, Ms. Evelyn, although it's difficult to judge because he's been avoiding you as much tonight as acceptable on an occasion such as this." Charles looked up, surprised, from the food he was still picking at, and gave his wife an apologetic glance. She merely glared, not taking her eyes off of the smug consulting detective, who was greatly enjoying being able to show off for the first time in days.

"But wait, I'm not finished . . ." Sherlock went on. Molly wished she could die on the spot. "Your husband didn't get you a gift for Valentine's day, as evidenced by the fact that you are also re-wearing jewelry . . ."

"Maybe he got me a gift, and it just wasn't jewelry," Evelyn growled through gritted teeth.

"Oh, of course it would have been jewelry," Sherlock smirked, "He hardly seems creative enough for something more original. So, let's see, long-time marital troubles, I'd say a year or two at the least, perhaps even contemplating divorce . . ."

"Divorce has never been mentioned!" Molly's sister shouted suddenly, slamming her napkin down on the table and rising halfway out of her seat. A hush fell over the nearby guests. Elizabeth looked up at her younger daughter in horror; whether at her outraged behavior or the revelation of the marital difficulties, Molly was uncertain. Tears rose into her sister's eyes, and she wiped them away, smearing a bit of mascara in the path. Charles remained silent, unsure of what to say; Molly had the feeling that Sherlock had been dead-on accurate.

It was Molly's mother who finally broke the silence. "Molly!" she snapped, "How could you? How could you actually find yourself . . . attracted to a brute like this! Its . . . It's . . . " She grappled for the right words, but every one seemed inadequate.

It was then that Molly's horror bubbled over into anger. Sherlock had been a complete jerk, humiliated and offended her family, and Molly was getting blamed for it? But in the end, this is what it had all come down to; she was really the one being put on trial each time she introduced a new beau, and found lacking.

"He's not my boyfriend," she whispered.

The table turned even more silent than before. Molly kept her eyes fixed on her hands resting on the table; when she forced herself to look up, she saw her mother staring at her with a look of confusion in her widened eyes.

"What do you mean, not your boyfriend?"

"That's exactly what I mean, Mother! Not my boyfriend. Does that really surprise you so very much?" Molly suddenly found all of her anger, anxiety, and humiliation of the past few days bubbling up inside of her. She couldn't stand it anymore; she shouldn't have had to do this in the first place, shouldn't have had to go to such lengths to try to appease the expectations set for her, to prove that she was truly worthy of someone special. She looked from her mother, to her sister, to her brother-in-law, all stricken with shock, not only at her revelation but at the sudden, uncharacteristic display of rage. And then she looked at Sherlock, and met the crystalline eyes that had already been staring down at her. What was that expression? Surprise? Remorse?

"She's right," he said softly, "I'm not."

"Why?"

It was the only word she said, but Molly could see a multitude of questions swimming in her mother's eyes as she gazed across at her.

"Molly shouldn't have to answer that," Sherlock declared suddenly. Molly looked over at him in surprise. She knew she should stop him, prevent him from saying something else that would offend or humiliate herself or another member of her family, but could things realistically get any worse than they already were?

"I think she has already been interrogated enough in the past, don't you?" he continued, "So I shall answer your questions for her. Yes, Molly lied to you." Her stomach turned at hearing it actually said aloud, "She doesn't have a boyfriend. But really, would it have made any difference if she did? Instead of hearing you harass her about the possibility of ending up as an old spinster, she would get to hear you question her new amour about his job, family, legal background, literary and artistic preferences, and so on. Mostly, I suspect, to prevent a repeat of one of her past relationship failures, some of which I suspect were due to your often unfair disapproval. And really, why should your approval matter at all, considering your younger daughter's relationship choices?" Molly cringed, and her sister glared.

"I'll admit that Molly is not the most, shall I say, inviting relationship option for most men," Sherlock was in his complete evaluative mode now, "Her clothing does not exactly communicate a desire to attract a potential mate; most women looking to be attractive would probably choose something a little more up-to-date than floral cardigans and childish ponytails. Judging by the types of women I've seen John show an interest in (an astonishing array, I will admit), awkward small talk does not generally seem to provoke an invitation to a date. Unfortunately, clumsy, meaningless conversation seems to be all that Molly is capable of engaging in with unfamiliar members of the male species. Perhaps, when she does enter into potential relationships, I would imagine based on her other personality traits that she is a bit 'clingy'" – air quotes around this last word – "which may be slightly off-putting. Not to mention, it's not too easy to meet potential love interests when you're working in a morgue, and poor Miss Hooper doesn't seem too interested, or perhaps too comfortable, engaging in social interactions outside of work. Not that she has many people to invite her anyway."

Molly's heart dropped, and she knew that she could no longer hold back her tears. A single tear dripped down her cheek, and she hastily wiped it away; she would not let Sherlock see her being weak, since evidently he thought she was pathetic in every other way. How dare he? How could this evening, the past few days in fact, be so false? The past few years, in fact, during which she had actually felt that he was warming towards her, feeling more comfortable confiding in her. Early this evening she had even thought for a moment . . . but no, she would not let herself think of that now.

She simply couldn't sit here anymore. She didn't look up at anyone around here, not wanting to see Sherlock's smug expression, or her mother's and sister's sympathy (or, perhaps, continued anger). Her head still down, she moved to stand up, but Sherlock's voice suddenly froze her in place.

"But they're wrong," Sherlock said softly, and then forcefully raised his voice, staring right into Elizabeth's eyes, "Anyone who gets this impression is wrong. Despite her upbringing, she feels no need to impress anyone or to communicate her superiority by wearing the most fashionable clothing or spending a ridiculous amount of time on her hair. Nor does she find provocative clothing essential to attracting anyone she would actually want to appeal to. If she shows some hesitation when she speaks, it is simply because she thinks through what she says, rather than risk spouting off meaningless, foolish, rash, and quite frankly idiotic nonsense, like some people I know," His eyebrows rose towards Elizabeth, "She is not dependent on her friends or romantic prospects, merely polite, and what may seem like neediness is simply her way of showing that she cares about them, which even I could quite frankly learn a lesson from. And if any idiot is put off by the fact that she works in a morgue, perhaps he should consider the fact that, by putting her extensive education and medical expertise to good use, she is contributing far more to society than, say, someone who donates to charity just enough to develop a good image in her society circles, not really caring that a good majority of that money goes to the organizers of that 'charity' anyway."

Molly looked at Sherlock, her mouth hanging. She had no idea what to think. Was he defending her? Was this another act? It was simply too much to process at once, too many unexpected and uncharacteristic statements to try to make sense of . . .

"In fact, I have noticed a number of men in her workplace and immediate vicinity who would be more than happy to attach themselves to her. If Molly's relationships are lacking in quantity or duration, it is not due to any personal fault, but rather to the fact that she is not willing to associate herself with a moron, pervert, or bore simply to appease the whims of her overbearing mother. It is through no personal fault of hers, and it should be perfectly clear to any reasonably intelligent human being that one could not hope to find a more suitable mate than Molly Hooper. The only thing keeping Molly Hooper from a relationship is that she's yet to find any man worthy of her."

A dead silence fell over the Hooper family. If Molly's mouth hadn't already been hanging as far open as possible, it would have dropped even further. She tried to say something, but failed to produce even a squeak.

"Well," Sherlock concluded, rising suddenly, "Thank you for a perfectly delightful start to the evening, Molly Hooper. I am sorry that it ended as it did." He turned towards Molly and met her widened eyes for a moment, slightly inclined his head politely, and then promptly turned around and left the ballroom.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly sat in silence for a long moment. Her sister stared down at her empty plate, as did her husband, steadfastly ignoring each other's eyes. Molly could feel her mother staring at her, could almost hear her open her mouth a few times as she tried to decide what to say, but then close it in indecision. It was a while before she was able to finally get a few words out, her voice hoarse and uncertain.

"Molly? Is that true?" she asked softly.

"What?" Molly murmured, "That I lied?"

"No, that's been pretty well established," her mother answered, although not with malice as Molly was expecting, "I mean is it true that you actually feel that way? Do you really think that I look down on you for not being . . . completely successful in relationships? That I don't approve of anyone you care about?"

Molly hesitated. The pained look in her mother's eyes caused a twinge of guilt, and she realized, suddenly that the hurt her mother had caused her had never been intentional. "I -"

"Actually, you don't have to answer that," Elizabeth continued with a sigh, "Of course it's true. It shouldn't have taken Sherlock Holmes to figure that out."

Molly looked up into her mother's eyes, saw the remorse that filled them. A lump formed in her throat. "I shouldn't have lied to you," she said softly, "and I certainly shouldn't have brought Sherlock here tonight. I should have known he'd do something like this . . ."

"No, I'm glad you did," she answered decisively, "It needed to be said, although perhaps you should have been the one to tell me. Perhaps I have been a bit too opinionated about your private life in the past. I just . . . I had just hoped . . ."

"That I'd be more like you? Like Evelyn?" Molly couldn't stop herself. It was time to stop hiding how she felt.

"That you'd be happy!" Her mother said forcefully.

"But I am happy!" Molly protested, "I'm happy with my challenging job and my cluttered flat and my little circle of friends, friends who actually care about who I am instead of what I have. I'd rather spend my money on some good books or music or DVDs than on clothing from pricey boutiques. I'm perfectly content with being single –" perhaps that wasn't completely true- "at least until I find someone who's . . . right. And when I do find someone who's right, I don't want to have to feel like you won't approve of my choice. Won't approve of me."

Her mother looked down at her hands thoughtfully, fingering her wedding ring, the one she had not taken off since her husband's death nearly two decades ago. "Did you ever realize," she said softly, "that my mother did not approve of your father either?"

Molly looked at her in surprise.

"It's true," Elizabeth continued, "He may have been from a wealthy family, but a very private one. No one knew much about them, and rumor was his father had some . . . legal troubles in the past. Or, if not legal, at least moral. But your father was a good man. I knew he was a good man. But my mother, well, she wasn't so sure. She was afraid that, if his father's reputation fell through (which it seemed likely to do), so would the reputation of his son and, by extension, me. She was strongly opposed to our marriage, much more strongly than I've ever been opposed to any of your relationships. But it worked, and I loved him." She looked up at Molly and smiled sadly. "And I was very, very happy. Oh, we had our share of hardships, as all couples do," she glanced over at Evelyn and Charles, grasping her younger daughter's hand, "but we worked through them together. Molly, all I want is for you to be happy, and if that means falling in love with someone I don't necessarily approve of, then so be it. I will respect your decisions, and try" – she smiled apologetically – "not to make you feel uncomfortable with your choice. You are a smart girl, I always knew you were. I just need to trust you to make your own decisions."

Molly choked back a sob. The tears in her eyes were no longer of sadness or anger, and she could find no words to respond. "I . . . I . . . Thank you." It was all she could think of to say.

"No need," her mother responded, "I apologize, actually. Now, don't you think you should go hunt down that inexhaustible young detective of yours?"

Molly looked at her, shocked. "Mom, I told you we're not a couple!"

"Oh, dear," Elizabeth smirked, "I saw the two of you dancing. I may not be the perfect judge of men, but I'm not blind!"

Almost an hour later, Molly stood at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street, still hovering indecisively. Upon leaving the ballroom, she had spent a quarter of an hour pacing up and down the nearby blocks, putting off making a decision for as long as she could. Glittering white flakes fell silently from the sky, but had not yet accumulated enough to blanket the grey slush that was left over from the snowfall earlier in the week. Soon Molly's feet, inadequately covered by her elegant shoes, were soaking wet. She only had a thin shawl covering her bare shoulders, and it wasn't long before the cold forced her to make a decision. She hailed a cab.

"Baker Street, please."

As Mrs. Hudson ushered her in, fussing over her lack of protection against the cold, Molly heard the melancholy notes of Sherlock's violin floating down the stairs.

"He's been playing that since he got back earlier this evening," Mrs. Hudson said, pursing her lips as they made the way up the stairs, "You might as well just walk in. He never answers the door when he's playing the violin. Or when he's correcting the telly. Or thinking about a case. Never, really."

Molly followed her advice hesitantly, peeking silently around the door as she eased it open. Sherlock was standing in the dimly lit flat, the only lights the streetlights glowing through the windows, his eyes closed as he concentrated on the music. He had tossed his black dress jacket over the back of his chair, but had not yet bothered to change out of the rest of his ballroom attire. She wondered if he knew she was there, and was tempted to give in to her desire to simply watch him play for a while, his eyes closed in contentment, swaying gracefully to the tempo. She felt like she was intruding, however, so she cleared her throat awkwardly.

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his gaze on her, but he continued playing, and did not so much as change his expression. Such behavior would have made Molly extremely uncomfortable in the past, but so many unexpected things had happened that evening, so many bridges crossed, that she returned his piercing gaze unflinchingly. He did not speak a word or drop his gaze, playing flawlessly and unhurriedly until the last slow, poignant notes of the song died away in the air. For a moment, the flat was completely silent, and Molly could feel her heart pounding in her chest. For once, it was not nervousness causing this reaction.

"What was tonight about?" she asked softly.

Sherlock ran one long finger thoughtfully along a string of his violin, before slowly setting it beside the fireplace. He sauntered a couple of steps closer to where Molly stood, taking a deep breath as he lifted his gaze to meet Molly's eyes once more.

"I thought that was obvious."

"No, not so much," Molly admitted, "At first I thought you were just being nice. Probably to get on my good side, maybe cheer me up a bit to make me more agreeable. Then I thought maybe you were genuinely trying to be a friend, get me out of a tough situation. For a while tonight I even wondered . . . I wondered if you were even enjoying yourself. And then, when you said those horrible things about my mother and sister – for god's sake, Sherlock, you caused quite a scene with that divorce comment and all –"

"They'll be fine," Sherlock interrupted, "I was correct to say they were having troubles, but I could tell they'll be fine. I –"

"Of course they'll be fine," Molly cut him off, "I already know that, so there's no need to explain yourself. That's not my point. My point is, when you started in on that, I thought you were trying to be cruel, trying to humiliate me for no apparent reason. Getting back at me for, well, I can't imagine what. Or perhaps just showing off again, regardless of whom it might hurt. But then, what you said after that . . . . I guess I just don't understand. I only asked you to pretend to be my date for one night. This seems to have gone beyond that. Do you have some inexplicable reason you want me to set things right with my family? Make me feel a little better about myself? I just don't –" She fell into silence, not completely sure how to continue, and honestly unable to come up with any further explanation for his behavior.

"It's simply true," Sherlock said, shrugging, "Why do you think I make my deductions? Showing off, yes, that's what I do, but there's nothing wrong with occasionally reasoning through the causes of an individual's behavior. I think I was quite accurate with you, was I not?"

"Well, maybe I am just awkward," Molly shrugged, blushing a bit.

"Hmm, maybe," Sherlock answered, "But I don't think so. And, quite frankly, I'm rarely wrong."

Molly scoffed. "Oh, I've seen you make mistakes plenty of times!"

"Well, not this time," he answered simply, "Besides, it was getting plainly tedious listening to your mother prattle on about how unsatisfactory every living member of the male species in London is. Even if she may be correct. I do regret making you feel uncomfortable though."

"You don't owe me an apology," Molly said softly, "I think your kind comments about me make up for anything you might have done that embarrassed me."

"Kind?" Sherlock looked mystified, "I don't say anything to be kind. I just told you, I was simply telling the truth. Something you could pick up on, perhaps."

Molly saw the good-natured glimmer in his eye and laughed. "Oh, I think you did that for me quite well."

"It won't happen again."

"That's fine. Besides, I would like to try to live up to the high opinion you have of my supposed self-confidence."

Sherlock nodded matter-of-factly. "Good. So it's settled then." He stepped over to his music stand and turned the page on his sheet music, then bent down to pick up his violin, obviously dismissing his unannounced guest.

"One more thing," Molly said hesitantly, feeling unusually bold after their conversation, "Did you really mean it when you said I would make a good partner? For someone I find . . . appropriate, I mean?"

Sherlock pulled up his sleeves a bit and settled the violin into position to play, and seemed to become distracted by his music sheet for a moment. Just as Molly wondered if he was going to answer at all (perhaps she had gone a step too far, and he regretted going so far in his defense of her? Perhaps he had said more than he actually believed, just to make a point?), he broke the silence.

"As I said, I was just telling the truth. I have seen nothing that would make you an undesirable choice for someone interested in finding such a person."

Molly's heart skipped a beat, but she knew no expression of gratitude for his statement was necessary; for Sherlock, this was nothing more than stating a fact. Which, in Molly's opinion, made it just that much more meaningful.

As Sherlock turned towards the window once more, Molly turned to leave, but she hesitated as she settled her hand on the doorknob. There was something else she wanted to say. Something that had been stirring in the back of her mind, nagging at her thoughts, since Sherlock's declaration that evening. Actually, that wasn't quite true; she had sensed it long before. It was probably silly, probably useless, and she was fairly certain that she should not say it at all. But would she regret it if she didn't? Probably. She was unlikely to ever face a better chance to admit it. Still, her hand trembled slightly on the knob, and she had to take several deep breaths to steady her voice.

"You were wrong about one thing, you know," she said, so softly that she was not sure Sherlock could hear her, "You were wrong that I have yet to find anyone worthy of my affections."

No sound came from the other side of the room. She remained perfectly still, listening desperately for some response, although she was not sure exactly what she was wanting anyway. She imagined Sherlock's still form silhouetted against the faint light of the windows, his mind far away, spinning faster than she could imagine as he blocked out all of the sounds and presences around him. She studied the wooden pattern of the door in front of her, pockmarked in places from some eccentric activity or another, trying desolately to distract herself from the suffocating silence, to hide her disappointment at the crushing lack of response. How foolish she had been. She willed herself to turn the knob, to leave Baker Street and turn up in the lab the next morning as if this Valentine's Day had never happened . . .

She felt a warm hand gently close around her arm and spun around in surprise, having failed to sense Sherlock's presence behind her. Before she could let out even a gasp of astonishment, his lips closed over hers.

The kiss was warm and soft and slow, everything and nothing that she had hoped for and dreamt about. His lips were gentle and undemanding, and yet somehow more passionate than she could have imagined, and for some reason she imagined him pausing the storm in his mind, the impossibly fast-paced rhythm of his extraordinary life for her alone. She felt their breath merge into one, felt a heartbeat flutter against her chest and distantly wondered whether it was her own or not, felt the heat of his body envelop her, and then her mind went curiously blank. She could barely feel Sherlock's hands burying themselves into her hair, gently cupping the back of her head to pull her closer, deepening the kiss. She almost missed her own sharp intake of breath as his teeth gently grazed her bottom lip, just for a moment, before he again captured her lips in his own.

And then it was over, and Molly was left feeling slightly disoriented as she gazed blurrily up into Sherlock's face. His own dark locks of hair were curiously disarrayed; Molly could only assume it was from her own hands, but already the details of the kiss were fading away like the vestiges of an intangible and nonsensical dream. She longed to capture his lips again to remind herself of the specifics.

The dreamy sheen over Sherlock's own eyes cleared so quickly Molly almost missed it, and before she knew it his bright, clear eyes were boring into hers again. He gave her a practical nod, stepping back decisively, and turned back to his violin.

"The lab, tomorrow," he stated matter-of-factly, certainly not a question at all.

"Tomorrow," her voice came out more hoarsely than she had heard it before, but it was all Molly could manage as she stumbled, bewildered and disheveled, out of the flat.

Molly's mind was spinning so quickly that she was halfway down the street before she noticed the radiant grin spread across her face. She knew the conversation in the lab tomorrow would be very interesting, but Sherlock was right: she was Molly Hooper, and she would be perfectly capable of achieving whatever she set her mind to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who have stuck with me to the end of this little story! I actually wrote this over a year ago for demi0123 for the Sherlolly Valentine's Day FIc-a-Thon in 2014, graciously arranged by broomclosetkink. Anyway, it's fun to get back to fanfic again, and I'm contemplating doing a Sherlolly fantasy inspired by Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere" . . . Thoughts? Hope this hasn't been done before!


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